Anathema
by AliasPseudo
Summary: Trowa knows what's wrong and how to fix it.  It's just too bad that doing so means revealing the past they didn't think he had to the friends he tried to forget.  M for language/future violence.  Post EW.
1. The Hospital

**Anathema**

**Chapter 1 of 3: The Hospital**

**A/N:** Hi, everyone! So, it's Friday and here's a fic! This is a little something I write as a warm up or palette cleanser. No betas, at least not yet.

If you enjoy it, please comment. Comments make my days better!**  
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When Trowa entered the room, all conversation stopped. He'd expected that, but it didn't make it any less tense. Of course, tension was probably a normal reaction when someone barged into your hospital room after two years of strict non-response to any form of communication. He couldn't really blame them. The sterile fluorescent light and sharp tang of antiseptic was doing nothing to ease the situation, either. Hospitals had always put him on edge; an added sense of dread didn't help. The headcount was three, not including himself: one disgruntled Preventer at the foot of the bed, one sleep deprived mechanic in the visitor's chair, and one battered blond propped up in the bed. He swept the room, empty second bed and all, then settled his hard gaze on Quatre.

"Trowa," Quatre blurted with a slight blush, like a child caught out of bounds. Something tightened in Trowa's chest with that look.

"We weren't expecting you, Barton," Wufei interceded. One glance told that the Chinese ex-pilot was here in a more official capacity, as well as fatigued, concerned, and not in the mood for idiocy at the moment.

He bit back all the snide comments that leapt to mind and cut to the chase, "Heero?"

"Surgery," Wufei grunted.

He didn't let his surprise show, "Again?"

"Still," the Preventer corrected, crisp pronunciation a clear sign of displeasure.

He found himself nodding. That made it close to ten and a half hours. Not a good sign. He filed that away before shifting his gaze to Quatre once again.

The blond blinked back at him for a few long moments before realizing what he was waiting for, "I- I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Duo growled, finally joining the conversation, though keeping bloodshot eyes on the floor. "Broken ribs, a collapsed lung, shattered ankle. I'd say you're pretty fucking far from 'fine'."

Quatre sighed, "A little rest and I'll be fine."

"Right, Q," the braided man drawled, finally shifting a venomous glare to the blond, "And I'm sure 'Ro'll be doing back flips in no time. If you two-"

"Don't even start that," Quatre sliced in effortlessly.

Wufei sighed, "Both of you stop. I need to finish taking your statement, Winner."

"Screw you, Fei," the American shot back, apparently sinking into a fouler mood, "This is as much your fault as mine. I told you where to find me if you absolutely needed to and you forked it over to team blue eyes faster than a two dollar whore drops trou."

Wufei gnashed his teeth, but apart from some concentrated seething, reacted rather well to the allusion, a fact to which Trowa couldn't help arching an eyebrow. Apparently, law enforcement, or something else, had mellowed Chang, who would've guessed. The Chinese man even managed to grind out a reply, "Yuy works for Preventer's also, Maxwell."

"Worked. Past tense. As in: Yuy _worked_ for Preventer's when he _was_ alive," Duo snarled back, "And don't give me that shit. You knew exactly what those two would do with that information, hence why I gave it to you. Guess I overestimated that stick up your ass."

"Perhaps if you hadn't run out on your partner like some idiotic little girl, I would have respected your wishes," Wufei scowled in distaste.

Duo bolted out of his chair, "I left because I had to! If you'd respected my fucking wishes, Heero wouldn't be dying on some god damned L2 operating table right now!"

Quatre cleared his throat, "Heero is not dead. Wufei was not wrong to give us your location. And it was not your fault the shuttle malfunctioned."

"Yes, it was," Trowa's soft tone swept in, pouncing on his chance. All eyes were on him and he was relatively satisfied with the various levels of shock. Duo was most extreme, though Quatre's rapid blinks were possibly the most amusing.

Wufei, as usual, was the most pragmatic, "Come again?"

"It was Duo's fault," Trowa clarified, though only just barely. Reactions this telling were too good to waste, after all. Duo had just stopped, frozen as though he'd been hit by something heavy and invisible. Wufei was eying him, willing to hear him out, but equally willing to kill him afterward if he didn't like what was said.

Pure, simple indignation was rolling off Quatre, "W- what? How- how could...? What is wrong with you, Trowa! By Allah, you can't be serious! You cannot be standing there, after two years, and saying-"

"Lay back, Winner," Wufei, who had stepped around the bedside, pushed the red faced blond back by his good shoulder when he started to wheeze. Bells on monitors had been going off. A nurse bustled in, shooting apprehensive glares between the two standing men. Duo had sunk slowly back into his chair, apparently stunned, unfocused. Trowa waited, hatches battened, for the inevitable calm. Once Quatre was breathing regularly once more, Wufei turned sharp obsidian eyes on the taller man, "Perhaps we should get some coffee."

They ducked out of the room, but not before Trowa received one more accusing stare from Quatre. In the relative openness of the hospital hallway, he sighed internally and let his heart untwist a bit before facing Wufei.

The Chinese Preventer had placed himself directly in front of the hospital room door and was busy breaking him down, bit by bit. Weighing, judging. Wufei never had made much of a secret of his judgmental nature. Flaunted it, some might say, actually. And it had served him well, with some few key exceptions. Dark eyes gauged the two years difference in him, extrapolated and made allowances. Yet once again, Trowa found himself noting a thaw in the Preventer. A subtle smoothing. Wufei cocked his head slightly to the side and actually spoke, "Alright, Barton. You have five minutes. Explain and make it good."

He took a very deep breath. "This is going to sound strange, just let me say it."

"Four forty-five," Wufei replied mildly.

"Duo's always been on his own. Distrustful, self-sufficient. Always something in the back of his head. But he falls in with a crowd, or ends up somewhere for a while. They take him in because he's not a bad guy and he takes care of himself. It's fine. Until he starts to get comfortable. Until he gets attached, really attached. Then they die. All of them die, except him. Happens each time. He's young, so probably less than four. More than once. And that thing in the back of his head becomes a thought, a word. Gains power."

Wufei was frowning at him, "What are you saying? Where are you getting this? Did Maxwell tell you about his past?"

"No. It's the standard pattern. It's something that he bears. He is." Trowa licked his lips, eyes darting briefly back into the room.

"Well," Wufei huffed in flat impatience, "What is he?"

"A curse." A husky voice growled lowly from the room behind him. Wufei pivoted to find a ghoulish Duo leaning against the door frame, tired, defeated. Glaring, daring with hopeless eyes. "I'm cursed and that's why they all die. I don't, they do."

"Cursed?" The Preventer snorted, unconvinced. From his periphery, Trowa could see Wufei glancing back and forth between them, but he was immediately focused on blue eyes with swirling violet undertones. A shiver shot up his spine to which he denied any reaction. He maintained an even, steady gaze and a strict neutrality, just like with the lions. Only more so.

"It's true, isn't it," Duo pressed, "I've always felt it, but it's really true."

Finally, Trowa allowed himself a single slow nod. He watched something shatter in large blue eyes, which he figured for either the last vestiges of hope or sanity. Didn't really matter which. The braided man silently wandered back into the room, offering Quatre a beaming smile and no mirth.

Wufei still had him pinned under a look he hadn't seen in a while, vintage early war Wufei, "How could you possibly know?"

The taller ex-pilot was surprised that it had been his Chinese comrade who questioned his sources instead of simply laughing it off. He'd taken Wufei as more of a skeptic. He noted this duly while answering, "I'm Roma. A Chovihano, a healer. I can see it."


	2. The Camp

**Anathema**

Chapter 2: The Camp  
>by APs<p>

**A/N:** Let me say right here and now that I am making things up for this story. I do not claim this to be an accurate cultural account or mean anyone's beliefs any disrespect. I'm striving for entertainment here, so please don't take any of it too seriously.

Also, this story has blossomed a bit, as my need to cleanse my palette grows while I work on a couple other things at the same time, so it'll be a little longer than initially projected. Hopefully, that's a good thing. Still no beta.

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!

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Trowa had been surprised at the civility that had followed his confession. Silence, a couple of minor questions, and an arrangement to meet later had bought him freedom from the building and the heavy stares of his former comrades. Well, the heavy stare of Wufei. Duo wouldn't look at him and Quatre had been drugged. Fortunately.

Now he stood in a small wooded corner of the hub's large common green beside a war memorial, waiting and listening to the stars sing. He'd always liked the colonies for that, even with their recycled breezes and redirected light. The metal and the dirt and the growing life all around him may have mourned the planet, but the stars were so much louder, clearer, out here. They flowed over him, through him, and washed out everything else. Everything. That was no small feat.

A throat clearing finally brought his attention to the two ex-pilots that had been standing there for some time. Oh yes, he had known. He was surprised Wufei had come, but from the look of Duo, perhaps the Chinese Preventer had brought rather than accompanied. The braided man appeared worse than before, which was impressive. Disheveled, distracted, and disgruntled, Duo did nothing by halves.

"Barton," Wufei greeted with an equally brusque nod.

Trowa returned the gesture before turning to their third.

Duo abruptly dropped his attempt to ignore everything when the silence started to solidified around them. Trowa didn't blame him, the world was entirely too quiet when the American was around. With a long sigh, dark blue eyes slid over the taller man, "So... You're some sort of witch doctor."

"He said healer," Wufei scoffed. "Of the Roma or Romani or, vulgarly, Gypsies. An ancient nomadic culture long thought assimilated."

Trowa blinked, wondering what book the Preventer was quoting. Honestly, he was probably closer to a Shaman, at least that's what he'd been told, but that didn't matter right now. Right now, all that mattered was keeping things simple and moving ahead.

Duo was smirking at Wufei, dark and broken, "Yeah, great. He can go shake a fucking stick at 'Ro and Q."

Wufei scowled back, "Treating the cause is more effective."

That made Duo cackle, "And how exactly do you 'treat' a curse?"

"Carefully," Trowa finally spoke up. Two sets of eyes landed on him as though they'd forgotten his existence, much less his presence. He forced himself to breath before continuing, "And, for Heero's sake, quickly."

Duo cracked, then crumpled, looking away. Wufei kept glaring at him, hard. Working toward his glare quota, no doubt. The colonial night cycle was fast approaching; he needed to speed this up. It might even hurt less that way. Like a shot, or a band-aid, or shrapnel extraction.

"Ask me for help."

That brought large eyes to him finally, swirling violet in dark blue depths, "Don't be a dickhead, Tro."

Trowa allowed himself a blink at the response. Better than he'd expected, all things told.

"It's part of the ritual, Maxwell," Wufei bit out, just shy of sighing, probably in exasperation. "You have to ask and he has to accept. I believe payment, whether a token of significance or actual money, is also customary. A sign of respect and goodwill."

If Trowa hadn't known otherwise, he might have suspected Wufei Chang of playing a practical joke. It was enough to make him discreetly pinch himself. The sting made it very clear he hadn't been hearing things, or at least not hearing things outside the norm.

Dark, almond eyes locked with his own, brows arched in silent challenge, voice dry, "You weren't the only Gundam Pilot raised in the 'Old Ways'."

Before the taller man could puzzle that through, Duo cleared his throat and rolled his eyes, "Trowa, will you help me?"

He took a deep breath and a step toward the braided man, "Be specific."

Duo sucked at his teeth and glared at the taller man, the silence palpable. Understandable, none of them liked admitting weakness or relying on others. Forcing it like this wouldn't win any friends. "Trowa, will you break my fucking curse... please?"

"Don't ask me for help unless you mean it," Trowa heard himself challenge, towering over the other and ignoring the feelings balled in his gut. This he could do. Keep things straight. Keep the line clear. This he could do. And he might even believe it if he repeated it enough.

Large dark blue eyes were blinking up at him, all shock and deep swimming violet. Duo smirked, not wavering an inch as darkness started to churn in the silence about them. When the braided man spoke, it was low and rough, like being dragged across pavement, "I don't say things I don't mean. Now, will you help break my goddamned curse before it kills everyone I give a shit about, again?"

Trowa clenched his jaw to school his face and nodded. He started to back away, but stopped.

Duo caught the hesitation and looked to Wufei, who made a giving motion. Duo sighed and rolled his eyes again, unclasping a chain from his neck and drawing out a small, but chunky silver cross, "This is the only meaningful thing I've got."

Green eyes lingered on the cross, drawing up memories and banishing them just as quickly. He swallowed that hot mess of cold nights and betrayal, though his voice still held a hint of aversion, "I prefer cash."

The hand offering the cross curled closed, white knuckled, "How's two hundred sound?"

"Cheap." A quick jab, likely ineffective. Haggling was something familiar to mercenaries and street rats alike.

"Seven? Lucky number and we could use the luck."

Trowa kept him coolly under a knowing gaze, "You keep thirteen on you. That's lucky, too."

Duo started forward, but Wufei caught his shoulder with an impatient growl. An impressive string of snarled curses and a bit of doing retrieving bills from shoes, braid, and various pockets later, the braided man slapped thirteen hundred dollars into Trowa's hand, much harder than was necessary.

Flipping through to count it, just to see if Duo would explode or kill him, rewarded him with a jagged, twitchy grin and a fresh feeling of doom in his stomach. Satisfied he now had the braided man's reserve, not to mention ire, he stuffed it into his pocket, turned on his heel, and motioned to be followed. He led them out across the commons, listening to the hush that followed them. Even the star songs seemed to circumvent their trio. He bit his cheek and took long strides. This would be over quickly, then there was just the hard part.

The circus tent was visible as soon as they left the memorial and it didn't take long to reach when moving with purpose. Which he supposed they were. Even as late as it was, the place buzzed with activity. Acts being practiced, sets being constructed, dinner being made, local children being entertained. The first show was tomorrow, but the camp itself never failed to attract attention.

He skirted the edge, keeping them away from the crowds and performers alike. The small caravan he shared with Cathy was off toward the back near the animal cages. He liked privacy and Cathy was accommodating. A ways off still among the cages, he slowed, then turned to them.

"Duo, go ahead," and he waved toward the only living space ahead of them before glancing toward their third.

The American looked at the others, opened his mouth, snapped it shut, and walked off, growling to himself, "I don't even give a shit."

Wufei blinked after the swinging braid, "He took that well."

Duo had taken it like someone that had just been forced to humiliate himself and then been dismissed. Of course, he hadn't thrown a grenade at them, so that was something. Trowa waited until the braided ex-pilot was a bit further off before speaking, "_Raised in the 'Old Ways'_?"

On the edge of his vision, keeping focus on Duo's back, Wufei was scowling, "I am a scholar and warrior. Neither of which make me faithless."

The thought was odd, but not impossible. Like giving a banana to a lion. Somethings were simply unexpected. He wouldn't dwell on it. "You should leave," he held out Duo's cash, "Make sure he gets this back."

A snarl actual made him look at Wufei to be rewarded with a full blown glower, "No."

Trowa was confused for all of a second. The lion behind Wufei raised its head and snarled interrogatively, catching green eyes. Of course, all Wufei had seen of him for two years was this incident. The Preventer was being protective. He actually allowed himself a tiny smirk at the novelty. He softened his normally even voice, "It attacks those he considers friends."

A deep furrow creased Wufei's brow. Dark eyes losing focus as he thought that through, explaining the roughness and the asking and the distance. There was everything short of an audible click when the last bit fell into place; if it had Heero and Quatre, Wufei may be next. The Preventer snorted, undaunted, "It's good Maxwell and I aren't friendly, then."

A single eyebrow arched over green eyes.

Wufei smirked, sharp and predatory, but not quite mean like it had once been, "I'm not leaving."

"I can't guarantee safety." Or legality after a certain point. He figured that was standard between them, though, or at least had been during the war. Maybe that had changed. Somehow, Trowa doubted it.

The look this time was as good as a scolding. Chang Wufei concerned for his own safety. Unfathomable. Then the Chinese man seemed to realize that he may not have meant physical safety. With a sigh, he produced something from about his neck. It was a flat disc, slightly smaller than palm sized, that appeared to be a wooden carving of a two headed, entwined dragon.

Now that Trowa saw it, he wondered how he had ever ignored it. It practically beamed with energy, probably as a well used focus, though one of the heads eyed him, snarling. "A protective amulet?"

"A Long Clan Guardian," Wufei confirmed, suddenly hushed. "Peach wood. It was in a safe deposit box I inherited and Winner tracked down."

There was sadness, but no despair, and calm where there had been fury. This Wufei was surprising. Having him around probably wouldn't hurt. "Follow my lead."

Wufei nodded and made to tuck the charm away. Trowa stopped him with his empty hand and a look. Instead of the half expected punch for the contact, Wufei simply conceded and took Trowa's hand, with Duo's cash, between both of his own. Dark eyes were level, "Give it back yourself. When this is done and you explain things."

Trowa blinked. That had been an awful lot of assumptions. Luckily, that was exactly the moment screams and shouts erupted from his modest home.

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**Weebesom** – It's good to hear that turned some heads, I was a bit worried. Explanations will be forthcoming, but only as the crisis is being managed.

**Semjaza** – Thank you. Here's more.

**JuSJaZ82** – Thanks, I will. And, yeah, poor Heero.


	3. The Circle

**Anathema**

**Chapter 3:** The Circle

by APs

**A/N:** Look at that, a weekly update. Huh. Yep, been writing a ton lately, so you get the benefits.

Enjoy! And if you would be so very kind, please review.

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It took much longer to diffuse the situation than it had to understand it. Bursting through the door into the abysmally dark caravan and flicking on the light had laid everything out for Trowa. Everyone else still seemed confused though. Wufei had his sidearm trained on Cathy, who was holding a knife at the ready in Duo's direction. Which happened to be already pinned to the far wall by three needle sharp blades. One on either side of his head and one through a sleeve, he noted with a small spark of admiration. They were screaming at each other, all at once. Trowa simply paced to the middle of the small room and waited. Eventually, things calmed, though weapons were not lowered.

"What is... _he_ doing in our home, Trowa?" Catherine leered at Duo like he was poisonous.

"He asked for help," Trowa cut in softly before Duo's sputters could form into words.

Catherine looked at him sharply, "And you agreed?"

He nodded, "Heero's in the hospital."

The worry that flooded her eyes at the quiet statement swept the danger out of her in an instant. She dropped her knives back into her bedside table and moved to hug her taller, younger brother. Her eyes narrowed on his face after a moment, "Heero... and Quatre."

He nodded, again, shooting a glance at Wufei over her head when she hugged him once again.

Wufei frowned, but dubiously tucked his gun away under his jacket. Just in time as the woman turned on him with a welcoming smile she'd dredged up from somewhere.

"It's good to see you, again. You look better," she paused, a cloud of worry flashing over her features, "All things considered."

Trowa's amusement at watching Wufei fumblingly attempt to answer, and remember, his sister was abruptly interrupted by a disgruntled throat clearing from the rear of the room.

"Not to make a fuss," Duo started, anger simmering just under a crooked grin, as he pointedly yanked the knife pinning his sleeve from the wall, "But your hospitality blows."

"I didn't ask you in," Cathy nearly spat back.

Wufei valiantly, or foolishly, attempted to intervene, "Duo-"

"She threw knives at me," Duo burst, defensive. There was only so much the braided pilot would take in a day and they'd passed that a good ways back.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't skulk around people's homes in the dark," Catherine shot back, a little louder and a little meaner.

And... _there_ was the realization. Duo blinked at the woman, before the anger got the better of him, "She threw knives at me _in the dark_!"

Surprise and something grim battled over Wufei's features, but the sneer on Cathy's face was very clear. Trowa placed a single hand on her shoulder and instantly felt her freeze, then deflate. His voice was calm and low, dragging things back from the rapid escalation, "Catherine has the Sight, too. Like mine, but more."

Duo eyed him, "She can see in the dark?"

"You weren't in any danger," Cathy admitted, soft and repellent, crossing arms over her chest.

Wufei cut in, his tone pragmatic, but an odd curiosity in his eyes, "So, it's biological? The Sight?"

Trowa felt Catherine bristle slightly at the question. This wasn't something discussed with outsiders. Of course, no one was particularly outside here. He caught dark eyes, "No, not entirely."

He watched Wufei tilt his head and weigh him. No, consider him. It wasn't a judgment the Chinese man was making, but a study. There was a light in dark eyes, intelligent and hungry, that was new. Wufei had named himself a scholar, but Trowa had never seen it before. "I suppose that would follow the spiritual nature of it. It does run in families, though?"

"Trowa," Catherine pounced, "The light."

Following her gaze through the open door, he noticed the colonial day steadily fading. Damn. Catherine was already clearing things from the middle of the room, leaving a large open area. He pitched in and they were done in seconds. Green eyes found her light grey blue ones. This wasn't her problem. She smirked and tension he'd carried from before the hospital vanished. Taking in a final full breath, he started, "Duo, I need you in the middle. Wufei, Catherine, and myself will be seated around you."

A couple nods and an eye roll later the others were in place. He took two very deliberate, menacing steps toward Duo, drawing a glare from the braided man as he invaded personal space and buried him in shadow. The room was dangerously silent, fatally still. He held out his hand, demanding the knife. He watched from the corner of his eye as the American's muscles tensed for a moment before slowly relinquishing the weapon. He could do this. The taller man forced his voice hard, "You will be facing me. I need something of you."

The braided man laughed, "More?"

He shook his head slowly, the knife still obvious between them, "A physical piece of you."

Blue eyes pulsed violet and that darkness invaded the silence again.

Smooth and swift, Trowa isolated a small lock of chestnut hair just behind unruly bangs and slid the knife over it. He focused on tugging it from the massive braid, tying it and the anger and the moment and the darkness about, to, the knife.

Duo seemed too shocked to respond properly. Normally, blood was used. Trowa had a feeling Duo's blood was nowhere near as dear to him as that braid, which he'd just defiled. The American's stunned, hurt silence was more than enough confirmation. He seemed to have a knack for fouling things Duo held sacred.

Taking two steps back, mindfully keeping Duo ahead of him, Trowa turned to Wufei. The Chinese man arched an eyebrow and Trowa nodded. Slipping a knife from a boot, Wufei easily went for his hair.

Trowa stopped him, "Blood would be better."

Dark eyes sharpened. Anyone that claimed to know anything about such dealings knew the significance of blood. It wasn't a small thing to ask.

"Why couldn't I give blood?" Duo croaked, half choked with anger.

"Because blood is only blood to you," Wufei growled. He slit a finger, deeper than Trowa considered necessary, cleaning and sheathing the blade. Then the Chinese man grabbed the wrist of the hand he'd offered, holding it still as he scrawled out a symbol in fine, sure strokes. At a guess, he'd say it was Chinese. Occam's razor could be wrong, though. Didn't matter.

Trowa felt the blood drying, cooling, on his palm and knew the trust it meant. Even Wufei's quick dismissal of the act before others could not change it. His voice softened slightly in spite of everything, "I want you to focus on protection. On safety, in this room, for us. Catherine will watch for connections and energies. Duo, I want you to clear your mind. Fall asleep if you have to."

"And what the Hell are you doing?" Duo bit out, all teeth and violet.

Catherine jumped, "You didn't tell them?"

"Tell us what?" Wufei swept in before he had time to redirect, astute as ever.

Cathy's large, stormy sky eyes just stared at him. He stared back, blood in one hand, knife in the other, and the day almost gone.

"Tell us what, dammit!" That was Duo, well past making jokes.

Finally, green eyes slid to deep blue violet and he swallowed. His throat was dry, but the voice that came out was passably harsh without cracking, "Your curse was a Death Curse. It leaves a very specific... mark."

"A death curse," Duo tried out warily, not liking the sound of it. He fidgeted into a grin, deep blue lingering on the knife, "Yeah, 'course. So, you just gonna put me outta my misery?"

Silence. No one in the room even breathed. It was Wufei snorting that broke it, bulling his way through, "Death Curses are the last act of a dying person."

"Well, that makes for a long ass list of suspects," Duo grumbled through a black chuckle.

"Actually," Catherine started, seeming to startle even herself by speaking up. She settled onto the floor, inviting the men to join her and allowing herself to continue while looking elsewhere, "The strength and... peculiarity of the hex on you is rare. The person would have known you intimately, had your name."

Everything was wiped clear off Duo's face. That would narrow the list considerably. Painfully, if Trowa had to guess, which he didn't. The American's voice was hollow when he sat, cross legged and facing Trowa, "Dead is dead."

"If that were true," Trowa settled himself, holding the knife between them so as to catch the last of the light on the blade, "I wouldn't need to do this."

"Just what the Hell _are_ you doing, Tro?" Duo's voice was lacking, almost bored in a very forced way. It didn't matter, Trowa was occupied. With the blade, the twilight, the edge, the border, the between...

"Negotiating," he breathed, he thought he had breathed. It was hard to tell as the room, the world, melted... together, apart, away.

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**Oda** – Thank you! I'm glad I caught your interest. Hope you enjoyed.

**Semjaza** – I'm happy you like it. The little gestures and interactions are usually my favorites, too. Thanks, again!

**KiaCoral** – I thought so. Thank you kindly and here's more. What'd you think?


	4. The Hedge

**Anathema**

**Chapter 4:** The Hedge

by APs

**A/N:** Day late, but here you go. Enjoy!

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He'd forgotten how much he disliked this. Always forgot. It probably had something to do with being in, and leaving, an altered state of mind. The forgetting. It was difficult, impossible, to describe where he was and what he was doing. He was everywhere; he did everything and nothing. Observer, participant, and element in all. The flesh couldn't understand, encompass, it. Most flesh. He supposedly wasn't most flesh.

Things settled, or rather his mind relaxed into a form of comprehension, and he found himself sitting on a tightrope surrounded by resounding nothingness. He knew if he fell, he would be lost, but also that he would only fall if he allowed himself. Finally, he found a black thread in his hand where the knife should have been, glowing an ominous violet-red as it led off ahead. Following that seemed like a terrible idea, not that he had any others.

He thought about standing fluidly and was standing. Walking forward was just as simple, if jarring. Stars were singing in the distance, beckoning. Colors, strange and wondrous swam in the nothing. Time was lost. He couldn't count breaths or heartbeats; he had neither. Form was only habit here. He walked alone, lulled by stars, the low dirge of the colony, and the distant pulse of Earth.

He walked. Alone, until he wasn't. They walked together, on the rope that was now a path of packed dirt and asphalt. Not intermingled, or patched, or layered, but both separately at the same time. He felt and knew the presence as it did him, neither requiring acknowledgment. Neither had the other's true name to acknowledge.

Finally, the other spoke in a voice low, but softer than vocal cords would have ever allowed, "This isn't like last time."

"No," he agreed, though it hadn't been a question. This wasn't a place of questions. Last times flooded him. Had happened, were happening. The last time he'd walked the Otherworld, retrieving a part of himself with Zero's guidance. The last time he'd been this naïve, waking to a world no one else could see with no memory. The last time he had saved a friend, walking in search of a boy's soul forfeited in Siberia and pain. No, this was not like any of those.

"You'll help them. Duo and Quatre."

He turned his mind from the names. A certain blond empath wouldn't likely miss, or appreciate, them stomping over his grave. The thread diverged from the path, leading away into a forest, a city. Both and obviously neither. Where bombed out buildings were ancient trees with snow piled in corners, at roots, shadows dancing. It loomed and he paused, nodding at the statement, "And you."

A hand fell on his shoulder, strong and solid in the insubstantial, "I could go with you."

He turned then to meet blue eyes. The man beside him was vague, yet more present than normal. Distilled. The eyes were just as piercing as ever through messy bangs. Something struck him. Fear or sadness, if either of those had existed there. No, this was a place for knowing and he knew. Yes, the other could accompany and even assist him, which was rare. But even his own chances of returning were slim; his friend's were already poor. It would be a one way trip and they both knew it. He wished for a face to hide his longing and indecision.

The other smiled, an expression for which there was no physical equivalent.

He reciprocated clumsily, casting off doubt, "Thank you. No. Stay on the path and-"

"If I feel pain, embrace it." The other quoted back at him with a chuckle. It recalled a long month of walking, searching, and coaxing back to a broken body, topped by a single joke made upon waking that the other's corporal self had never fully grasped.

He laughed and the hand was withdrawn. His friend was gone, but so were his doubts. He stepped from the path into the woods with a firmer grasp on the thread, a more tangible stride to his legs.

The forest, city, was dark, close, and bitter cold. His turtle neck and jeans did nothing to cut the frigidity, the metal of a gun bit into his lower back. This was familiar. The shadows stopped dancing and began to dart. Back and forth. Pooling and forming packs. Hunting him. Of course. He reached for the weapon and it burned cold in his off hand.

Nameless, faceless, the shadows came. He darted forward, shooting ragged holes in raging souls. The thread spun about him as he kicked something from his leg. He sprang to a branch, a broken wall, shooting as he twirled, tumbling back to the ground, and rolling to a sprint. He didn't try counting, they were without number. They called for his blood, the blood of a killer, a soldier that had escaped, survived. Lived when they had not. He didn't stop, didn't talk, but he couldn't outrun them, couldn't beat back the tide. They tore at him, drawing hot pain across the cold. Darkness crashed against, over him, ripping torment from him in sound, a scream felt more than heard. Still, he pushed forward. He could not stop. Wrenched down, ground into the snowy undergrowth, concrete, the gun flew from his grip and he clawed his way ahead through howls and insanity and guilt and inevitability. The shadows redoubled with a taste of victory and he could feel himself losing, his fingers slipping the terrible thread. Duo's thread...

Then all was calm.

For several small eternities, he didn't allow himself to move. Didn't know what to expect, what had happened. Things, reality, shifted in confusion. The angry spirits of millions of murdered had been tearing him apart and now nothing, not even the cold.

Then a rich, soothing voice oozed about him like warm honey or liquid sunshine, "You can get up now, dear."

Looking, standing, being up, he saw two figures. A man and a woman stood together, both clad in black and white, both wearing familiar crosses, both smiling at him kindly. There was a faint scent was burning flesh. The man spoke in a voice strong enough to support tons, yet fine enough to thread needles, "You shouldn't be out here alone, my son."

"I'm not your son," he heard himself correct harshly, backing toward the darkness of the trees, ruins.

The woman laughed, like molten gold, "I can see why Duo would ask him for help, Father."

"You were victims of his curse." And he knew they had been. His eyes narrowed, not that he had eyes.

They smiled and it was a perfect summer day, a warm bed on a cold night, a favorite meal. It was calm and sweet and patient and wise. It was love and... home. The man motioned between himself and the woman, "Walk with us."

Stuttering in hesitation, he fit between them, feeling suddenly small. They started forward again, together, and the shadows melted before them. "You're helping me."

"You're helping our Duo," the woman beamed down at him.

He focused on the thread in his hand, "You're dead because of him."

"We died in a battle," the man corrected gently.

He frowned up at the man, "Then, you're trapped here because of him."

The man chuckled, bubbling warm strength, "He can't let us go."

"You'll help him," the woman repeated as gently as a breeze and just as refreshing.

They reached a clearing beyond which the forest grew denser, the city becoming more claustrophobic. It was twisted and sharper.

"This is as far as we can take you," the man said, though they had all known it.

He nodded, agreeing unnecessarily, "Thank you."

"Thank you," the woman countered as they bathed him in those smiles once more. She came down to eye level with him and lightly brushed his cheek. "No one should fear love."

Then the two were gone and he was alone, headed forward. The thread wound treacherously through the thick undergrowth, debris. He could feel others, more defined than the shadows, yet not as whole as the two. These had faces and names, even if he did not know them. He avoided them, giving each a wide berth. He noted haggard ladies with hollowness and grimy men with rage. A jittery, emaciated few had hunger. Some of them he knew: a prostitute from Marseilles the mercenaries had frequented, a corrupt sheriff that had paid them to clear undesirables, a mercenary who had overdosed on leave. They called to him, blind wails in the night, and he ignored them, pulling his scarf up over his nose. Anonymity wouldn't last.

Almost to answer that thought, something latched about his arm and wrenched him back, around. It should have hurt, but the shock was enough. He blinked up at the monster of wrath and sorrow before him with open terror.

"Captain." The word seemed to deepen his betrayal, somehow.

The monster fumed, "You have a lot to answer for, kid."

He couldn't find his voice. The closeness was suddenly much closer; he was surrounded. Each one was familiar, distinct. Mercenaries, his band. That he killed to save a spy. Their hatred, their anger, their intent hit him with force beyond pain or panic. This was not a place for fear or forgiveness; this was a place for knowing. And he knew he deserved the death they brought.

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**KiaCoral** – I won't lie, when I lengthened this, the pacing got a little stretched. I'm not putting my usual insane amount of time into plotting this one, so I hope you can forgive it. Thanks, again!

**Snowdragonct** – Thank you kindly. I did some research, but mostly I just have an academic interest in the sort of thing. It's very nice to hear that it works.

**Semjaza** – Well, here you go. I'm glad the atmosphere of this has been obvious. I wanted a look at things from a side we don't normally think about. Thanks!

**XOda** – This has turned out much more suspenseful than I'd originally thought, not that I'm apologizing. These are very short, but the trade is that I get them out quicker. Thank you very much for the compliment!

**Triolet** – Thank you! There is a shamanic tradition in Romani culture, but it is also very diverse. I've always assumed Trowa was Romani, it just rarely comes up. I just couldn't figure Quatre in, which wasn't such a problem when this was three chapters long. This is story is all about intelligent, informed people doing dangerous things and I'm glad you like it.


	5. The Root

**Anathema**

**Chapter 05:** The Root

by APs

**A/N:** So, I'm actually doing pretty good with this weekly thing. However, this week kind of sucked hardcore, so reviews would be amazing. If you've been lurking, now would be a great time to chime in.

Thanks! Hope you enjoy!

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Things blurred, shapes dissolved. Reality, or what passed for it, melted into a flurry of faces and words and feelings. He knew their names, how they had died, what had killed them. He knew and they knew and this was the end. There wasn't pain; he'd left that in the woods. There was no doubt; abandoned on the road. There was despair, spiny, black, festering from within, burning like acid. Slow and clinical. Despair at the knowledge this place brought. The ineluctable, incontrovertible absolute at the bottom of everything.

In the mess, his Captain formed and dispersed, moving in and out of the violence, "I found you and knew you and taught you to Walk. I showed you guardians and the path. I claimed you as family."

"I was never your family," he spat without mouth or tongue. "I never knew your name. You never trusted me."

The form was lost to the tumult, but the voice was clear, wrapping about him, weighing him down, "I trusted. We trusted. You chose. A gadji over familia. Now it's a gadjo. You are strong, but foolish. No one is empty. No one is free. No one escapes."

Darkness crashed over him, forced its way inside, stifling speech and resistance and hope. Drowning, sinking, slipping further. He twitched in substance, flickering on the edge of thought and existence. Being swallowed, being crushed and ground to nothing. And it was oddly peaceful, letting it go, embracing what must be, slipping from what could, scattering.

A tug. Something tugged, then pulled, hard and firm against him. Clasped about his hand, his hand in which he held a string. A black, glowing string. He was moving up and away. A hand was hauling him from the darkness, tearing him bit by bit from the tangle he'd dispersed into. Up, away, together. He broke the surface and gasped for air that was metaphorical, at best.

Hands were dragging him out, onto a shore. Hands attached to a small body, small as his own, with a blond mop of hair and grey eyes. Plus one hell of a smile, which he caught a mere flash of before the kid beside him was throwing taunts back across the river, which hadn't been there before, at the mercenaries trapped on the other side.

"You..." He faltered and it was strange, new. The faltering. He felt wet and weak and tiny, his hair matted in his face. He coughed and tried again, "You jumped in after me."

The blond stuck out his tongue one last time, then turned to him, laughter trailing on his tone, "Shit, kid, don't sound so surprised."

He was surprised. Amazed. Stunned beyond words. He had been gone. Past gone.

"Don't thank me," the other boy chuckled. "Least, not yet. We gotta move. Those aren't the only jerks around."

He blinked as the blond turned away until a tug reminded him to follow. Looking down, a small hand was clamped about his wrist, cold and clammy, but vice strong. This side of the river was sharper and more broken, shattered. There were tunnels and twisted side streets, snarled brambles. The figures still lurked, but the blond avoided them with easy.

The thought congealed slowly as they scrambled and lurked. "You're one of Duo's."

The laugh was like a bloodied knife, warm and dark and cutting, "Nah. That little shit is one of mine and saving his ass is what I do."

They stopped, slamming back against a wall. The hand on his wrist pushed him back, behind, out of harm as they waited. He noticed that though he had dried, the blond was still dripping wet and vaguely greenish. Then they were moving again.

They were headed down. Quickly. The trees, ruins, gave way to caverns, sewers. Dank, devious networks that branched and knotted. He no longer felt shades, but there were definitely things. Things without names. Deep, tenacious things.

He stepped closer behind his guide, "You shouldn't have been able to save me."

"Had to try." The boy shrugged.

He frowned, "No, you didn't. It was impossible."

"Fuck possibility." They reached a doorway pouring light into the darkened tunnel and the blond stopped just shy of it, turning to him. He could see the grey eyes were clouded and blank. Illness clung to the boy like clothing, but his smile was sharp and bright and daring. Fearless.

"He loved you." He knew it. Without doubt or pain or despair. And he knew why.

That smile warmed into a smirk, "Yeah. I owe him." The blond closed both of his clammy hands about his holding the string and brought it up between them. "Help the idiot."

"I will." And he would do anything to keep his word. Because it was true. Because he'd been helped. Because there was nothing else. Fuck possibility. Everyone deserved to love.

The blond released him and slunk back into the dark, smile fading slower than the rest, "Good. Hold on and don't let her shake you."

He watched until he was sure all was gone. The light streaming through the doorway was hard and cold. It fell in angled shafts and he stared at it, wondering if it were solid. The thread, his thread, Duo's, led through the door. He could do nothing but follow it. The light tingled, electric, through him, which was better than bursting into cold flame. At least, he figured.

Beyond the doorway was a vast open pit. Roots twined and coiled about each other from the towering rotted out tree; melted glass and metal smoked in the crater of the bombed out tower. It was tragedy silent, each of his footfalls screeching against the natural order. Down below, in the very center, curled a single wretched figure. It was vague and shifting and writhed violently. The thread led directly to it, wrapped about it like spider's silk on a fly. He was there before either realized and all motion stopped.

It was a woman, but that was all he could truly tell and all he really needed. "You're the one."

"You know I am." It was a tried thing. "You knew from the beginning."

"Then you know why I've come."

It mumbled to itself, drawing its limbs in, becoming small. "I do."

"Let him go."

"No," she snarled.

"He's alive, you're dead. Let him go."

It rolled onto its knees, a dry half sob escaping, "I can't."

"You can. You will."

The head snapped up and dark blue violet eyes stared at him through the tangled mass of hair, "I couldn't even if I would. Done in dying, stronger than the dead."

He watched her, features smudging as she wailed and cringed, "Then tell me the name, his name. The name you cursed."

Her head thrashed from side to side on the ground and a sound he had mistaken for crying rose until he knew it for laughter. "No. No name. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh. Stronger than a name. Than death, than you. But you knew that."

He didn't see the point in agreeing, he had feared this and now it burned in him. He dropped to his knees, grabbing her by the shoulders, "You're hurting him. You're killing him. He's kind and loyal and generous and loved despite you. In spite of you."

"I know," the voice was tiny, frightened of itself. "I know and I'm sorry. You can't have him. It wasn't meant to be this way."

"You hexed him with your dying breath." he challenged, shaking the fragile thing in his grasp.

She lolled in his grasp and let out a wretched groan, "I hexed his father."

Silence fell like night upon them, changing everything. He held her fast, but she wasn't moving.

Finally, she spoke, "I was dying and alone and angry, so angry. He'd promised... but only if it was a boy. But I was going, even as I held him, and I swore, that man would never have him. His father would take him and groom him and give him everything, but he would never have him. Not what was mine."

"His father didn't take him." And the magic, the vague malformed idea born of rage and terror and death, had coped as well as it could. Claimed who it could. "He's probably dead."

A sob sent a crack straight through her, and she gasped, clawing at the ground, "No. He can't have mine, so you can't have him, either."

"And if he were..." He didn't need to finish, he knew the answer.

The woman was cracking and flaking away, like ash, but she raised her head and smiled at him. It was gruesomely beautiful. A single hand reach toward her chest, then into her deteriorating body. When she withdrew it, there was a single black thorn, pulsing red in her skeletal fingers. She took his hand from the string and placed the thorn in his palm, easing it closed just as the last of her drifted away on a sourceless wind.

Suddenly alone in the night, he took his bearings. All was silent and still. The door, the tree, the building, the thread were gone. Then so was the ground. He started to drift and all was panic.

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**KiaCoral** – Here it is with reveals and everything. The Otherworld is a mix of spirit and perception, so it was interesting, but challenging to write. Glad to here opinions. It's always lovely to hear from you!

**Halas** – Don't let me get you in trouble! Of course, I certainly don't mind the gushing. The idea of shamanic expansion with the colonies and all that technology really filled out this story. The imagery and play is a lot of fun. Thank you kindly! I look forward to your next review.

**Semjaza** – Thanks so much, again! The devil's in the details. Certain elements of Scifi have always been close to spiritual/supernatural themes for me and the Zero system definitely qualifies. This mix has been fun, so it's nice to hear you enjoy it.


	6. The Junction

**Anathema**

**Chapter 06:** The Junction

by APs

**A/N:** Late, sorry. Hope you can all enjoy it, anyway.

Thanks for your time!

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There was nothing. Just blankness and drifting and that sickness at the pit of his very being. It was familiar and inviting and terrifying for both. Where he was, there was nothing, but where he could be lay infinite before him. Paths upon paths sprang from his nothingness, his centre. He stood in the crossroads and trembled.

A voice, half heard, beckoned. It called to something deep inside him, lost on the wind, forgotten. The path before him was suddenly dark and veiled, but welcoming. The voice called, like a memory or a dream, pulling him forward, imploring him to rest. It spoke softly, wordlessly, to a part of him that knew it and replied without thought or care. Something like light or warmth ignited inside him, filling the holes and jagged cracks his journey had left in his being. Smoothing, dulling. The end was close; all he need do was follow it, allow it. It called by name; it called him home. And he had no reason not to go.

As the thought to go forward formed, awareness blossomed in the back of his mind. Awareness of his free hand, being and tingling. Then teeth and a massive roar mangled placidity, driving him back, away. Rending him from the peace and dropping him mercilessly on his ass. He stared at the tiny two-headed beast hovering just before his wide eyes. One head eyed him back while the other snarled over its shoulder.

A snorted laugh made him whirl. He found a small woman standing behind him, dark eyes obsidian sharp and a tiny, amused smirk on her lips. Her voice was wild flowers on a summer breeze, simmering with a smile, "A nomad should not be so quick to walk that way."

Blinking the shock from his brain, he spun back toward his chosen path, but the crossing was gone. Only the path on which they stood remained. It was hard, craggy, and long, pitching sharply upward. That would not be easy going.

"Right and easy rarely keep each other's company," the woman huffed fondly.

He blinked at her, again. She was so familiar, yet he knew they had never met. Her clothes shifted between plain, dark garments and shining armour. Her face blurred , but those deep, dark eyes stayed sharp, calmly scrutinous. Weighing with a silent challenge. He forced himself to look deeper, beyond the form of the thing and gasped. There were fathers and mothers and siblings and cousins and matrons and masters; generations without number present all about them, tied by one thing. A mark, a symbol burned in the core of them, it. Looking down, the same symbol burned on his palm, pulsing and tingling. It seeped into him nearly like the voice had, only grounding and infusing his fuzzy thoughts with strength. Clarity washed over him, patience like eternity, inclusion, and honor. This was more than a bloodline; it was knowledge and duty and home.

When he once again looked at the woman, she smiled, "I thought you'd be smarter."

"You're Nataku."

Her laughter was sudden and violent, a peel of thunder, "He still- oh, of course he does." She turned and waved down the road, "We should get you back before my grumpy scholar panics."

They moved quickly, the dragon weaving in the space about them like a mother hen. Exactly where the way torqued into a sheer cliff, they stopped. He smelled rosemary and mugwort and salt and peach blossoms. He could feel weight and air and heat. The stars were singing and the steady beat at the core of the world was echoing into the turn of metal and lightning, echoing inside his own chest.

He turned quickly to the woman, "I could give him a message."

She nodded, setting her pigtails swinging, "You could, but it would be nothing he doesn't already know."

"You're his Clan."

"We told him to find his own way." She smiled, taking his marked hand in her own. He could feel the trust, the weight, the meaning and couldn't help smiling back. Those obsidian eyes bore into him as the rest contorted, faded, and drifted like so much smoke, blending with sensations and visions. They held his gaze, black on black, as her voice rained on his brain, "Clansmen protect their own."

He blinked... and was back in his caravan, sitting on the floor facing Duo. Darkness had truly claimed the colony, the room was nearly pitch black. It must have been a few hours minimum, judging by his stiffness. The air was thick and close, cloying, sticking in his throat. The pain throbbing from his right hand was almost expected, but the warmth in his left was a surprise. Glancing down was an even bigger shock to find not Wufei's, but Duo's hand clasped in his own.

Almost on cue, or more likely taking a cue from his pulse, deep blue eyes burst open, "Tro?"

Trowa stared at the braided man in front of him with green eyes that felt too big and too small simultaneously.

The American stared back with a little frown and clear concern, leaning forward. Duo's hand gave his a squeeze before those dark blue eyes swept over him, flashing faintly violet in the low light. Trowa could just make out the forms of Wufei and his sister, seated nearby, starting to stir from the minor disturbances. Then Duo gasped in horror, "Fuck, Tro, your hand!"

Two sets of eyes shot open and blinked from their respective trances in panic. The taller man quickly extricated his blood marked hand from the braided man's and looked to see what had gotten him so worked up. In his right hand Trowa still clutched his sister's knife, but his grip had slid down the blade as he'd driven the point into the floor. It bit deeply into his palm, trailing thick red down the blade's edge. A light was flicked on and he released the knife, flexing his hand to test the damage.

"Stop that," Cathy snapped as she knelt beside him, already opening their first aid kit. She took his long, square hand delicately in her long narrow ones, making a small sound of regret. "This is what you get, jumping into a trance like that before the salt is laid or herbs lit."

"A bandage will do, Cathy," he forced out his throat. The sound was soft and the inflection lacking, but it was a sound.

"Don't be..." The red head let it trail as something on his palm caught her interest. She glanced from the wound to the knife then finally to him. Her large, pale blue eyes were shocked, wide and blinking.

He stared back, passive and open, mind still raw from the walk, "Just a bandage."

Her eyes grew sad, but her jaw clenched, her posture snapping erect. Cathy went to work patching his hand in chill silence.

"Well," Duo chimed in reluctantly, fighting the inevitable question, "How'd it go?"

Trowa cast green eyes up, finding Duo leaning over him with Wufei surreptitiously watching over his shoulder. He settled focus on his Chinese friend's dark eyes, who stared back letting a small frown deepen the already harsh shadows across his face.

Then blue eyes, large with honest curiosity and hiding violet in their depths, moved even further into his foreground becoming his entire field of vision. There was dark humor in the low tone when he finally asked, "That good, huh?"

"Back off and let the man speak, Maxwell," Wufei barked before Cathy, who was glaring death in the braided man's general direction, could spring the muscles she'd coiled.

"Alright! Man," Duo stood, muttering under his breath.

Trowa breathed deep, feeling his chest fill and his blood flow, trying to fit back into a material body. Finally, he reached for the knife and yanked it free of the floor. It glowed, sinister to his eyes, but Catherine's sight went far beyond his own. His sister remained seated beside him and he held it between them. Green eyes locked with pale blue, "I need you to scry this."

His sister practically flinched in disgust, "No."

"Please." It was bland and cold. He stopped himself, forcing a small smile onto his lips and warmth into his voice, "Cathy."

Brow furrowed, she wavered between him and the knife before finally breaking. With a sigh, she reached for a small dish, upon which smoldered the remnants of a bundle of herbs she must have lit after he'd gone under. Or away. Whatever the word was for what he did. The near viscous smoke drifted lazily up and around his extended hand, the scent heavy in the air instantly. Catherine stared at the knife, breathing deeply. The quiet of the long moments clung like the smoke, idle in their meanderings. A stir of motion off to the side was halted quickly as Wufei placed a restraining hand on Duo's shoulder. She stared at it until she was gazing into it. Then, emptying her lungs, pale blue eyes closed. Gasping sharply, her eyes shot open, but fix ahead, wide and unseeing. Perhaps seeing things incredibly far off, removed, unfathomed.

Her voice was deep, but hollow as she spoke in slow, sharp phrases, "Seek and find. A modern giant. A worshiper of Gold. A follower of Greed. Who walks the paths Main and Broad. Who reigns high over all save one. Who conspires in three by five. Seek and find and beware the man with no name."

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**KiaCoral** – Thank you! It's always nice to hear people enjoyed a chapter and that twisted were twisty. It can be a hard thing for a writer to gauge, so thank you.

**Lurker** – Thank you kindly! It's very nice to hear.

**Halas** – No need to apologize for anything. Promise. I like replying in chapter because I enjoy the public aspect of it. Hopefully, I don't scare anyone off. Anyway, I'm sorry this one is late. I'm elated you enjoy the descriptions as I had worried they would be too vague and rambling. Also, though Shamanism has well known ties to Native American beliefs, there are Shamanic traditions worldwide. Feel free to note me, if you'd like to discuss it. Thank you, again, for your lovely review.


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